


just gimme one bad night

by karples



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Teen Titans - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:22:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8346814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karples/pseuds/karples
Summary: In which Roy and Robin beat up a bunch of villains. All in a day's work, right?





	

**Author's Note:**

> just wanted to write something more light-hearted. the early days.
> 
> title from one bad night by hayley kiyoko. enjoy! :)

Just _has_ to be one of those nights--tourists complain about Gotham ‘til they’re fresh out of breath, but have they _been_ to Star City? Summer fog’s so thick, it’s like wading facefirst into a quilt, roadlights and stopsigns leaping out at moment’s notice. At least Roy’s parking job was decent--a bit snug, but better than Ollie could’ve done. Not a lotta space at the ports, eighteen-wheelers lined up fender-to-bumper. Dinah would’ve been proud.

The thundering beneath Roy’s feet grows stronger, which means he’s nearing the jackpot. The low rumble lodges right behind his front teeth, a buzz that slides like a razor between skin and muscle, intense enough that Roy’s bones shiver along with it. Jesus, does he hate shaking. Messes with his grip, and he’d tell Robin, but then Rob might think he’s making excuses.

In this kinda foreboding darkness, smothered and suffocating, Rob’s redbreast appears bled out and drained. The yellow cape doesn’t feel so much like a camera flash anymore, more like spilled mustard. Rob taps his domino to switch lens settings, frowning when the visuals don’t change much. Roy senses a new pet project on the horizon.

“Got any magnesium flares?” Rob asks, soft and ticklish against Roy’s earlobe. What a weird thought--Rob’s voice is a part of Roy now, captured and translated by the curled organ that looks like a snail, according to Roy’s biology textbook. He wasn’t really paying attention. At least he remembers the tympanum--like a timpani drum. Rob’s voice touched that, too.

Roy slips a trick arrow outta his quiver. “Gimme some credit.”

“Not now,” Rob says quickly, putting a gloved hand over Roy’s, and Roy’s arms go gooseflesh as he steps away from Rob’s bubble of heat.

“So what’s the plan, Boy Wonder?”

“Get in, get on with it, get it over with, and get out. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“Good,” Rob says, smile widening--of _course_ Rob would like Danny Kaye, what a cheeseball--and then he _drops_. Roy startles and dives to his knees, clanging hard, searching for Rob, and OK, so they’re on the edge of a shipping compartment. Cool. Still can’t see Rob, so much for _eagle eye_ , but in Roy’s defense, this fog is dense, almost another layer of earth.

Roy hops down with a grunt. A hiss-click of a lighter--it’s got cute little bat-ears--and an ember spits sparks in Rob’s palm like an unenthusiastic firework. Nowhere close to a strobe, but it’ll definitely attract attention. Rob draws a large glowing circle in the metal door, then adds a stylized R and an arrow straight through it. Roy approves, even if it seems a lot like lovers’ initials carved into tree trunks.

Muffled shouts swell inside, punctuated by the clicks of semiautomatics. Gotta be quick work here on out. Roy loosens up his stance, rolls his shoulders. He and Rob make eye contact, or rather, Roy stares into the Starlite lenses--Rob kicks the circle out, creating an opening, and they’re _live_ , folks! The crackcrackcrack of bullets flying overhead’s like no other sound in the world. Roy nabs a merc in the eye with a boxing glove arrow, sneaks a glance at Rob to check if he’s watching--not that he _needs_ Rob to see, just, y’know, it was a pretty cool move--and the expression on Rob’s round face slides from shock to wicked delight.

Rob’s cackling now, somersaulting and keepin’ busy, which reminds Roy that he’s entertaining the other half of the room. He turns--a rush of air strokes his cheek, and Roy can feel his skin split, a leaf-thin seam. OK, OK, _pay attention_. Two mercs bigger’n Superman charge at him, heads down like bulls--Roy strings up two arrows and lets ‘em fly, but he’s not quick enough to dodge the arm, solid as a prison bar, that curls around his waist. He rolls with the punch, gives the person behind him the Harper Headbutt, only backwards. Comes in handy, it does, and _that’s_ the crunch of somebody’s nose bridge.

A fist connects with Roy’s gut, _pow!_ and he stumbles sideways, wheezing, stomach contracting hard--wow, he really hopes Rob’s not watching this part--a batarang clips the nozzle of a gun, tipping it toward the ceiling, and, OK, Rob’s watching. No big deal. Roy backs into a wobbly stack of crates, scaling them without looking. His fingers skitter over the selection in his quiver, and is that a polyurethane foam arrow? Ollie had been  _so_ out of it when they refined it--“It’s like a sentient bubble bath, except it traps you!” he’d exclaimed, eyes red and sleepless, and Roy had shrugged and ordered another pizza.

Roy should’ve used polyurethane sooner, saved himself a busted face, but a reason to skip school’s a reason to skip school, no matter how bad it’ll bruise. Roy picks off three more and hunkers down on top of the crates, packaging peanuts cascading like torrential rain. It doesn’t occur to him that his minor slip-up might’ve cost Rob until he hears a strangled cry--“ _Geddoff!_ ”

Rob’s struggling, furious and missing a glove. Even at this distance, his knuckles look raw, ringed with the imprints of teeth. Six-foot-two in a mask yanks down the enormous beige canvas in the middle, revealing a colossal mill-like contraption, grinding rock after rock into a green, glittery dust between its gleaming mandibles. Pure evil.

The clanging grows louder and louder in Roy’s ears, more immediate, urgent, though the one they’re dragging closer and closer is Rob. In comparison, the bullets sound like the pitterpatter of rain, so insignificant that Roy almost believes they couldn’t hurt him. Almost.

“ _Robin_ ,” Roy yells, scanning the room, once, twice. Rob’s chin jerks up, the curve of his cheek lined in bright hot orange, neon, his lips bloody and shiny, and Roy shouts, “It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s a--”

Rob instantly ducks and presses his face to his knees. The magnesium flare arcs like a comet, sizzling, sparkling, then searing white. Below, people scream. Roy’s sprinting, abandoning his vantage point before his lenses deflect most of the brightness, mowing people down as he goes, trained on Rob like a bullet on the x-marks-the-spot, the dangling red cross of a sniper scope. Rob’s freed himself, except Six-foot-two’s snatching him outta the air, and Rob’s too tiny, Roy thinks, one hundred percent panicking, Rob’s way too light, and Six-foot-two throws Rob at the machine, straight into its open, crunching maw, and Rob vanishes.

Too late, too late--Roy takes the shot. Takes another shot. Takes a third. The shocks from the electric arrows zip through mercs and Six-foot-two and machine ‘til all shudder to a stop, and Roy skids and stumbles right over someone’s twitching leg.

An arctic crescent of electricity arcs between the machine’s jagged canines. Roy’s heartbeat’s racing, but his blood’s sluggish, frosty popsicle ooze. Something inside of him is short circuiting. Jury’s not out yet on Rob. Roy limps forward, Christ, what a time to get a calf cramp.

“A little help?” Rob says, cheeky, when Roy peeks into the machine. Rob’s feet are braced on either side of him, his nose dribbling blood, lower lip split. His cape’s missing, and Roy spies a torn shred behind him, like a downy yellow canary feather.

Roy props his hip against the machine. He can’t stop grinning. “Wouldja look at that, Tweety Bird lives to see another day.”

“Failing to prepare is preparing to fail. Boots and gloves’re insulated,” Rob adds, and _that_ explains why Rob’s bare hand is tucked to his chest, a slender brown shell.

“All that's left now is gettin’ you out,” Roy remarks, calmer than he feels. “How d’you want to do it?”

Rob heaves a sigh. “No preference. Just get me up, Speedy.”

“Wish, command.” Bracing himself, Roy reaches out. The warm callouses on Rob’s fingers snag on the soft, inner skin of Roy’s forearm, above his wrist, and the tingle that spreads is like a fragile second pulse. Rob clambers over the edge, steps on Roy’s toes, mumbles an apology. “S’fine,” Roy says, scrubbing his jaw. His fingers are coated in grime and green powder. “What the hell _is_ this stuff?”

“Don’t quote me on it, but it might be kryptonite.” They exchange knowing glances, and behind the fractured left lens of Rob’s domino, his lashes are very black, his eyes very blue. Roy wonders if he’d recognize Rob if they crossed paths on the street--not likely. Ouch, was that a twinge? Get a grip. Their job’s not done: Rob scrapes the green stuff into a plastic baggie and snaps a few photos, while Roy surveys the property damage. Ollie’d be impressed. Bats might be pissed.

“Y’know, we’re awesome when we’re not fighting about what to do,” Roy says.

“Which is whenever we pick my plan,” Rob says, but he’s smiling. Roy swats him with his cap.

“Come to think about it, how’d you plan for the flare?”

“Mm, didn’t,” Rob says. “Just wanted to know if you had one.”

“Well, you name it, we got it.”

“Still.” Rob pauses, curling and uncurling his fingers. Roy can’t believe it--the guy wears booty shorts, and he’s shy about his naked hand? Maybe it’s ‘cause he’s usually gloved, and anyway, his index’s a bit crooked, might’ve healed oddly. Nails chewed down, tapered palm. OK, now Roy’s self-conscious. “You were real sharp tonight, Speedy. I owe you one.”

“I’m always sharp,” Roy jokes, motioning at his arrows, though he’s lacking his usual smugness. The fog’s started to cloud the shipping compartment, and Rob fishes his missing glove out from a pile of unconscious mercs. He tugs it on, battered knuckles disappearing like some kinda secret between them.

Rob settles his hands on his hips. “On another note--want to help me fill out a mission report?”

“ _Ha_ , no way, that’s like giving yourself homework.” Roy bends to retrieve his magnesium flare--badly burned, trampled underfoot, a wire wisping outta one end. A neat keepsake. “Better idea, let’s get three AM take-out instead.”


End file.
